In the Rose Gardens at Noon
by JustlikeWater
Summary: Trapped among the dull-eyed patients and maddening, mulish staff of New Beginnings Rehabilitation Center, Sherlock Holmes finds his only solace in the facility's garden—or, more specifically, in the enchanting blue-eyed man who frequents there. [Sherlock POV] [Johnlock]
1. Rain Lily

**A/N: Hi guys! Here's some things to know about the story:**

 **I'm going to include a little flower blurb at the beginning of each chapter, because most of this story takes place in a garden and I think flower symbolism is super cute. Plus, it'll give a hint of what the chapter will be about :)**

 **Trigger warnings: Mentions of drug use (Cocaine) and suicidal thoughts (mostly present in chapter one, and referenced in later chapters).**

 **Sherlock is in his twenties and John is in his thirties, so the age difference is about ten years. (They'll have a conversation about this in a later chapter)**

 **I'd love to hear what you all think, so please don't hesitate to leave your opinions in the comments :)**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _The **Rain Lily** only blooms after a rain shower, reflecting spiritual awakening after a storm in life. It symbolizes the peace and clarity that comes after one's lowest point._

...

Sherlock Holmes was lying on his couch at two in the morning, high as a kite, staring at the ceiling in search of shapes in the uneven paintwork, when he realized, with no small amount of wonder, that he was going to die.

For some reason, the thought made him giddy. Of course, he'd always known _logically_ that there was a clear end to this dull, insipid torture, but it was only just dawning on him that that elusive finish line was much closer than he'd imagined. His one-way ticket to oblivion was merely two inches to his right, all packaged up in a clear syringe and an elastic arm band. Why wait until he was old and useless? Why not go out with a hiss and a bang? Twenty five years was plenty of time to have seen all life had to offer, wasn't it? No use sticking around longer than necessary.

Sherlock tipped his head back and bared his throat to the mottled ceiling, the skin-warmed needle ghosting over his arm like a kiss. Aside from the actual high, this moment of pure _anticipation_ was what he loved the most. He shivered as the metal tip scraped against his flesh and slowly penetrated the spider web of veins spanning through his forearm. He groaned as the drug shot through his bloodstream, hot and fast and burning with life.

This was love, this was chemical sex, this was gravity and oxygen and—

 _Fuck,_ this was lovely.

His head lolled to the side and he stared blearily at the broken telly in the corner. Just last Thursday, the damn thing short-circuited and burned a dark purple scar into the side of his thumb. Not that it mattered anymore, of course. A broken television was the least of his worries, now. He'd decided his fate several minutes ago, and as new as the decision was, he planned to stick to it. Sherlock folded his hands atop his chest, posed in the mockery of a corpse in a coffin, and waited for the end with bated breath.

His last conscious thought was something along the lines of _Finally._

 _..._

Sherlock couldn't remember much of what happened next, except the flashing ambulance lights and his brother's face staring down at him like a statue.

"Never again, Sherlock," Mycroft promised quietly. " _Never_ again."

* * *

The rehabilitation center was a squat, white building on the corner of Lancaster and Catalan. It was surrounded by pink and yellow flowers, and its name was New Beginnings.

"Mycroft," Sherlock began in protest. "This is—"

"Your new home," Mycroft finished flatly. "And it would behoove you to get used to it."

Inside wasn't much better. The waiting room smelled like lavender air freshener, acrid floor cleaner, and the receptionist's cheap perfume. Every staff member looked half-dead with boredom.

"I hate this," Sherlock said between gritted teeth.

Mycroft's reply was dispassionate and unmoved. "Welcome to the world of consequences, Sherlock."

To his further annoyance, the woman at the front desk was chewing her gum far too loudly.

She stared at him from beneath her fake lashes. "Name?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft supplied.

She continued chewing her gum in loud, obnoxious smacks and flipped to a fresh page on her clipboard. "If you'll just sign here, Mr. Holmes, Jenifer would be happy to show you to your room."

"I'd rather not."

Mycroft pointedly cleared his throat. "Shall we revisit the alternatives I mentioned on the ride over?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw. "I am not living with Mummy nor am I living with _you_."

"That's what I thought. Here," he said firmly, sliding the clipboard his way. "It appears they have provided a pen."

If Sherlock weren't still hungover, he might've had a decent chance of ripping his arm out of Mycroft's grasp and sprinting to freedom. At the very least, he'd be able to reach the park across the street before his brother's goons stopped him, and from there he could stoop behind the blueberry bushes and hide until everyone stopped looking and retreated.

Unfortunately, as it stood, merely nodding his head roused a deathly wave of nausea and his legs were about as fit to run as his brother's—which was to say, not at all. Attempting a daring escape in his current state would only serve to irk Mycroft and give him even more incentive to make Sherlock's life a living hell.

"Where do I sign?" he muttered at last. The receptionist tapped an acrylic nail against the dotted line and continued boredly smacking her gum.

"Right here, Mr. Holmes. Welcome to New Beginnings."

...

That evening, a grey-faced nurse waddled into his room, dumped a plastic tray of supper on the table, and handed him a paper cup full of white pills.

"They help with the withdrawal," she croaked at him, even though he hadn't asked.

* * *

For the next two days, he refused to take his pills purely out of spite. He also refused to attend his therapy sessions. And since all good things came in threes, he decided to skip meals too.

During the day he did nothing. He closed off his mind palace, afraid of tarnishing it with the dullness of his surroundings, and simply stared at the white stucco ceiling for hours on end. His thoughts drifted lazily like smoke, evaporating just as soon as they occurred to him.

For the first night, the headaches and frayed nerves were manageable. He found he had no appetite and that made ignoring his tray of food much easier.

However, by the next afternoon, he began to sense a decline in his health. The headaches that had once been faint and infrequent now exploded through his skull like atomic bombs. Nausea tore through him like a whip, and he found he could no longer stand upright without seeing stars.

His mental state was no better. Unease and fear scuttled in the back of his mind like cockroaches, making him see monsters where there were shadows, and danger where there was nothing. Paranoia clawed at his teeth and sat sourly on his tongue. Sleep twisted out of his grasp like smoke. Anxiety buzzed beneath his skin like wasps.

Sherlock was wise enough to realize that unless he wished to revisit the hospital sometime soon, he needed to take better care of himself. Though he was still quite comfortable with the thought of dying, he had no intention of suffering through days of self-inflicted torture.

With this in mind, he took all of his pills and licked his plate clean when suppertime came on the third night.

"Glad to see you've come around, Mr. Holmes," the nurse rasped as she collected the empty dishes from his table that evening. "Who knows, maybe the staff was wrong about you."

He draped a forearm over his eyes and ignored her.

"Well, either way, my money's on you, kid," she said, and then shut the door.

At last, with the room awash in lovely, dark silence, Sherlock swallowed the pill under his tongue and let himself slip away on the sweet wave of narcotics.

* * *

Therapy involved a lot of dull questions and thoughtful hums from a woman called Dr. Sheppard.

"Where did you grow up, Sherlock?"

He stared at the loose thread on her collar. "London."

She spent two minutes scribbling in her notebook. "Describe your parents, Sherlock."

"Divorced."

More scribbling. "What is your relationship with your brother like, Sherlock?"

"Tiresome."

She started writing again and then stopped, lifting her gaze to meet his. She adjusted her pink plastic glasses with an index finger. "This will only be effective if you give me more than one word answers, Sherlock."

He moved his gaze away from the loose string and fixed her with the full force of his stare. "I have a better idea. May I pose a question for _you_ , Dr. Sheppard?"

She blinked several times. "Er—I suppose."

"How did it feel when you discovered your sister's affair with your husband last month? Not too good, I would imagine."

Her cherry-glossed mouth fell into the shape of an O.

"And what was it like losing ten pounds on that six week diet, only to gain back twenty?"

"I—"

"While I'm at it, what were you feeling when you found out your credit cards had been stolen and maxed out by your youngest brother? I'm _truly_ quite curious."

"I…I—"

Sherlock tilted his head and offered a saccharine smile. "More than one word answers, please."

…

His _new_ therapist was Dr. Mabelle Ford. She was tall, tan, and built like a broad-shouldered rugby player. During their first session, she cut him off before he could even begin with his deductions.

"I can make your stay quite unpleasant if I choose to, Sherlock," she said evenly. "Perhaps it would be wise if we focused on your personal life instead of mine."

"Well—"

"That doesn't sound like agreement."

"If you'd let me—"

She tapped her pen sharply against her notepad. "Neither did that. Shall I contact your brother and inform him that you are not being cooperative? He's told me that there are other alternatives available should you find yourself dissatisfied with New Beginnings."

Sherlock clenched his jaw so hard he could hear his molars grinding. "I'll behave."

"Good," she said with a dry smile. "Then let's begin."

* * *

When Sherlock found himself with free time—which was often—he pondered what he would do when he got out. Continuing his detective work seemed to be the only option, but he wasn't sure if that would be enough. There was a gaping hole in his life, and now that he no longer had the sweet embrace of drugs to fall back on, he wasn't sure what was left.

This feeling of dissatisfaction was by no means new. From a young age, Sherlock's life had always been lacking something. As a child, he'd been ignored by his busy parents and genius older brother, which left him lonely and starved for affection. The only creature that ever showed him unconditional love and companionship was Redbeard, his Irish Setter, but he too abandoned Sherlock, albeit by the inevitable force of death.

After that, Sherlock had been more careful with his heart. Instead of relying on people or animals or _things_ , he'd relied on the cold, clinical kiss of a needle. Because despite all the drawbacks, drugs never abandoned him, hated him, or judged him. They never hurt him or left him or broke his heart.

What drugs _did_ do, was bring him to a towering peak where euphoria was sharp and sticky-sweet, and joy shivered through his veins like champagne. When he was high, when he had magic in his blood, the world was lovely and people liked him. Men bought him drinks, women smiled and laughed, crowds were warm and pulsating rather than congested and loud. The sky was a sea of blue, the sun beamed down on him like a smile, and the smell of London felt sharp enough to cut into his lungs and infuse the essence of the city into the spaces where his blood ran. On drugs, he was a different person—a better person. He wasn't odd or pitiful or out of place. He was something spectacular. He was something special.

And without it, he was—lost. Empty. A faceless, passionless nobody with blurred ambitions and a heavy heart.

* * *

"Tell me something about yourself, Sherlock."

Boredom clawed at his skin. "My mother is the queen of England and my father is the lost prince of Monaco."

Dr. Ford tapped her pen against her notepad, unimpressed. "Answer truthfully, Sherlock."

"Why?" he asked sardonically. "Will I get a prize?"

She smiled drily and pointed to a jar of lollies on her desk. "If you're really good, I'll give you one."

Sherlock scowled and sank lower in his seat. "Wonderful."

* * *

A few weeks into his stay, Mycroft began phoning him. And each time, without fail, Sherlock would gnash his teeth and refuse to take his call.

"Mr. Holmes," the nurse croaked, holding the phone out to him for the third time that week. "Your brother says he'd like to speak with you."

"Good for him."

"Mr. Holmes, patients only get phone privileges when they've showed improvement," she reminded him. "You've earned this."

Briefly, Sherlock considered binning his meds again just for the sake of revoking that 'privilege', before deciding it wasn't worth the trouble. Simply rejecting Mycroft's call would have to suffice for now.

"I have no desire to speak to my brother and he knows that. Tell Mycroft to bugger off."

"Language, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm done discussing this."

"Mr.—"

" _Done."_

* * *

Their session started as it usually did. Dr. Ford took a long sip of her black coffee, flipped to a fresh page of her notebook, and asked Sherlock, "Tell me something about yourself."

And, also as usual, Sherlock lied. "My middle name is Nietzsche and my dear, personal hobby is wood carving."

"No."

"I can speak two hundred and twenty-three languages fluently."

"No."

"My favorite color is yellow."

She narrowed her eyes at him. After a moment, she leaned back and pronounced: "No."

He scowled at the ceiling. She was right, it was blue.

* * *

With nothing better to do, Sherlock began to revert back to his childhood habit of making lists. His walls used to be covered in bits of paper filled with everything from procedures for his experiments, to idly-written notes cataloguing his surroundings.

He sat in bed with a napkin and a ballpoint pen and began aimlessly writing.

 _Cons of New Beginnings_

 _Odd smells such as: cheap perfume, floor cleaner, incense, candles, cafeteria food, medicine, antiseptic, D-grade hand soap, etc_

 _Bored bored bored bored bored bored BORED_

 _No cases_

 _No music_

 _No drugs_

 _Annoying questions from patronizing therapists_

 _Annoying calls from self-righteous brothers_

 _Nightmares_

 _Someone is always watching, controlling, directing, demanding_

 _Bored bored BORED._

 _It's too quiet at night—no cars/city sounds_

 _Pros of New Beginnings_

 _I'm alive._

* * *

"Sherlock, what brought you here?"

He glared at the carpet. "My brother."

"What event, I mean."

"Drugs. I was addicted to drugs. Are you really so simple that you can't read the information on my file?"

She ignored his surliness and remained even-toned. "I've read your file, Sherlock."

"Then you know the answer to your question."

"Yes, but I would like you to say it."

"Ah, so I may accept responsibility for my actions, yes? Now, which psychobabbling third-rate textbook did you read that from, Mabelle?"

"You'll address me as Dr. Ford, thank you."

They stared at each other in stony silence for a long time, before Sherlock finally gave in.

"Fine. I'll say it." He made a point of looking her in the eyes. "I'm here because I tried to off myself."

"And why did you want to do that, Sherlock?"

"Oh, I don't know," he sneered. "Why do most people attempt suicide? Clearly, because of my great zest for life."

She tapped her pen for a moment, then adjusted her question. "Why did you want to die, Sherlock?"

"Because I have nothing here," he replied flatly.

The sound of her pen was like a steady, maddening metronome. "What about your family?"

"What about them."

"Hobbies? Passions?"

"Dull. Hateful. Insipid."

"Loved ones?"

"Non-existent."

"Surely there's something."

"No."

She pursed her lips. "You know what I think, Sherlock? I think you haven't come to terms with the real reason behind why you attempted suicide. I think, if you sat down and really thought about it, then perhaps—"

"We're done here."

"Sherlock—"

"No."

And with that, he got up off the couch and left the room, slamming the door behind him so hard that the hinges rattled.  
…

Two days later, he found himself pondering Dr. Ford's question.

 _Why did you want to die?_

To be fair to himself, it hadn't been a bona fide suicide attempt. It had been a normal Thursday night for Sherlock, up until that earth-shattering moment when he realized how easy it would be to just _disappear_ : to fade from existence with a needle in his arm and his heart pumped full of poison.

That was, of course, the moment that Dr. Ford was referring to when she'd asked, _Why did you want to die?_

It wasn't that he'd hated himself or felt terribly alone—though, both of those things were certainly true. It was because the periods between the highs had become shorter and shorter. Life began looking duller and blander every time he came down. His ambitions and drive and very own _soul_ melted down to one simple desire, and that was: get more.

He tried to kill himself because he no longer wanted to return to the real world. He never wanted to come down from his glorious, beautiful high.

Reality was far too disappointing.

* * *

"Have you ever written anything, Sherlock?" Dr. Ford asked him later that week.

"Music, yes," he answered tonelessly, his gaze fixated on the dusty, drawn curtains hanging before the window. "And laboratory data."

She began rooting around for something in her bag, but he didn't bother looking up. After a minute of shuffling through papers, he saw her outstretched hand offering something in his peripheral. "It's a journal," she explained, once he reluctantly accepted it. "I'd like you to write in it."

"What am I to write?"

"Anything. Some of my patients choose to write short stories or poetry, and some just like writing down random phrases or names. It's entirely up to you."

He stared skeptically at the leather bound journal. "I assume you'll be checking it?"

"No," Dr. Ford answered succinctly. "I will not. At no point during your stay will I know what you've written."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Then for all you know, I could leave the entire thing blank."

"You could," she admitted with a nod. Her eyes carried a knowing look that frustrated Sherlock to no end. "But I have a feeling you won't."

…

For three days, he stubbornly refused to write anything simply on principle—she'd seemed so smug back there, as if she _knew_ he was going to cave. Refusing to prove her right, he kept the journal in the far corner of his desk and used it for everything but writing: a coaster for his drinks, a doorstop, a flyswatter. For a while, Sherlock felt quite satisfied with himself.

On day four, however, it occurred to him that she would never know either way, so what difference did it make? Whether he wrote anything or not, she would just assume he had. Besides, life at New Beginnings was extremely boring and he actually did find comfort in the mindless, easy activity of making lists.

Resigned, Sherlock sat down at his desk and starting jotting things down.

 _Good things in life_

 _Classical music_

 _Cocaine_

 _Murder cases_

 _Running through London at night_

 _Bees, all sorts_

 _Dogs, all sorts_

 _Chocolate biscuits_

 _Coats and scarves_

 _The violin_

 _Playing in the rain with Mummy when I was six_

 _Bad things in life_

 _Love ballads_

 _Rehab_

 _Boredom_

 _Wasting precious mental space_

 _Cats, all sorts_

 _People, all sorts_

 _Most food_

 _Heat waves_

 _Disappointment_

 _Redbeard dying when I was twelve_

* * *

Sherlock hated recreation hour because he found all of the possible destinations—the entertainment center, garden, and gym—deplorable. Usually, he spent his sixty minutes of freedom holed up in his room, staring at the ceiling and listing off the ionic charges of the periodic elements.

Today, however, the director of activities, Sheila May, insisted that he do something.

"Come along, Mr. Holmes! Healthy bodies equal healthy minds!" she chirped, pulling him out of bed.

After a lot of choice words and idle threats, he resigned himself to the nature walk, simply because it seemed slightly less horrific than reality telly or treadmills.

"The nature walk?" Shelia repeated, raising her eyebrows at him like that was the last response she'd been expecting. "Can't say it's a popular choice around here, but to each his own. Off you go, Mr. Holmes!"

…

The moment Sherlock stepped into the deserted garden, he realized the extent of its unpopularity. No wonder Sheila had been surprised. Apparently, most recovering addicts preferred to sit before the television like vegetables or exercise as if they were training for the Olympics. Sherlock didn't mind it, though; he liked the solitude.

The garden itself was rather nice and had ample flowers, which meant it also had ample bees, and that pleased him greatly. Sherlock liked bees. They were complex, hardworking creatures that didn't bother with human folly, like emotion or sentiment. Bees were steadfast in their work and always had a clear objective. He understood them and felt connected to them, which was infinitely more than he could say about people.

Entranced, Sherlock watched a trio of honeybees swoop and dive amongst bushels of purple hyacinths and yellow buttercups. After a moment, he remembered Sheila saying there was a bench at the center of the garden that provided a lovely view.

Unhurriedly, Sherlock made his way down the narrow flagstone path, his mind pleasantly blank as he passed cluster after cluster of colorful, fragrant roses.

…

To his surprise, a man was already sitting on the bench. He wasn't reading a book or napping, and he lacked the twitchy, nervous disposition of most New Beginnings residents. Overall, he seemed quite calm, sitting there with his hands in his lap and his gaze resting at middle distance. Sherlock almost envied how easily the man carried himself.

"You're not a patient," Sherlock said without preamble, stepping into his line of sight.

The man raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's and Sherlock was stunned by how blue they were. "Yes, that's correct," he said agreeably.

"Who are you visiting?"

"My sister, Harriet."

"Ah." For some reason, Sherlock could not summon the words to further the conversation. He wasn't sure what to say next, but he didn't want to stop talking to the man. Something about him grabbed Sherlock's attention, and being that it wasn't often that Sherlock found people striking, he was in no rush to move on.

Thankfully, the man ignored his unease and simply patted the empty spot beside him. "Would you like to sit with me?"

"I suppose."

"Name's John," the man said, sticking out his hand and squaring his shoulders. His perfect posture and steady eye contact immediately struck Sherlock as the behavior of a soldier, and when he shook John's hand and discovered the gun callouses on his palm, his suspicions were confirmed.

"Sherlock," he said in return.

"I like that name," John declared, and for some reason, Sherlock felt himself flush. "Would you like to join me on my walk, Sherlock?"

"Where are you walking?"

"Around."

Sherlock's heart made an odd leap in his chest. "Yes, I'll join you."

…

"I'm not like everyone else here, you know," Sherlock said somewhat haltingly, as they walked side by side down the path. John glanced at him from the corner of his eye. "I'm not crazy, I mean," Sherlock clarified. "Or desperate."

"Desperate?"

"For a fix. I'm not. I'm—normal." As silly as it was, Sherlock could not resist the urge to separate himself from the hollow-eyed, twitchy people around him. John seemed to be a relatively nice bloke and the last thing Sherlock wanted to do was scare him off.

John nodded thoughtfully and pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. "I suppose I'd call myself normal, too." He paused and considered something, then amended, "Normal- _ish_."

"Ish?"

"Yeah." John smiled wryly. "I'm a discharged war vet with a busted shoulder, an alcoholic sister, and a useless blog—not the most ordinary of lives, is it?"

Sherlock found himself liking John more and more by the minute. There was something incredibly refreshing about his dark humor and sharp wit. "Well, I'm a former addict thrust into rehab by my righteous older brother, so I suppose I'm not exactly _normal_ either."

"We all have our crosses to bear," said John. "Besides, I've always found normal quite _boring_."

Sherlock caught his eye and felt the beginnings of a smile form on his lips. "Well, that's good. I find it quite boring as well."

A beat of comfortable silence passed as they continued making their way down the path.

"Out of curiosity, what is an example something you _don't_ find boring, Sherlock?"

"You," Sherlock answered without thinking. As soon as the words left his lips, he felt himself go tense with apprehension, worried that John would be put off by his earnestness.

Instead of looking disturbed, however, John grinned. "Splendid. Because you're easily the most exciting person I've encountered this year."

…

"Really, John? Of all things, you'd choose _strawberry pie_?" Sherlock complained an hour later, as they made their fourth lap around the small garden. "It's so syrupy and sweet, how can you stand it?"

John laughed. "That's kind of the point of desserts. Besides—" He stopped as his mobile chimed in his pocket. "Better check that, one mo." As John scanned the text, a frown began to form on his face.

"Who is it?"

John sighed and pocketed his phone. "It's Harry, my sister. She said I better get back. Visiting hours are apparently over."

Sherlock licked his bottom lip anxiously, one of the many annoying ticks he'd developed in his time here. "When will you be back?"

"I work tomorrow but I'll pop by on Wednesday at around noon, depending on how busy it is at the clinic."

"Oh, alright. I'll see you Wednesday then," Sherlock replied, endeavoring quite valiantly to sound nonchalant.

"It was good to meet you, Sherlock," John said warmly, taking his hand in a shake. His mouth was neutral but his eyes looked like they were smiling.

"Pleasure to meet you, too, John," Sherlock replied.

"Ta, Sherlock."

After John left, Sherlock lingered in the garden and thought about the way John had said his name. The vowels seemed to spill from his lips, effortlessly, easily, as if they were born to rest on his tongue. As if he'd always been destined to speak Sherlock's name and smile at him and playfully joke around…

 _Sherlock_ sounded quite nice from John's mouth.

* * *

When Dr. Ford asked him her usual question the next morning, he found himself ready to tell the truth for once.

"I met someone yesterday," he said casually, his eyes trained on the toes of his shoes. "His name is John Watson and his sister is here for her alcoholism."

Dr. Ford stopped tapping her pen and looked at him. "Would you like to tell me about John Watson?"

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice; the words spilled from his mouth like a flood. "He just left the army a few months ago. He served for three and a half years as an army doctor before he was wounded in battle and shipped home. He hates talk shows on telly, he can speak fragments of French that he remembers from Uni, his middle name is a secret because he hates it, his favorite dessert is pecan pie—but strawberry pie is a close second—and he has a 'love-hate' relationship with technology because he loves his laptop, but he hates the Chip and Pin machines at Tesco."

For once, Dr. Ford didn't write anything down, she merely watched him. For a moment, he thought he saw something in her gaze soften. "Do you like John Watson, Sherlock?"

As Sherlock thought back on John's engulfing blue eyes, strong hands, and sharp wit, something warm and lovely unfurled in his chest.

"Yes," he answered confidently. "I do."

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, darlings! Please let me know what you thought of this chapter in the comments, your feedback is incredibly helpful! The next chapter will be up by Friday or Saturday, so make sure to sub/follow!**

 **Until next time!**


	2. Lilac

**A/N: Thank you all for such wonderful feedback, it was a huge relief (and treat!) to see how much you guys enjoyed chapter one *huge grin***

 **I've also decided that there is no way this story is going to only be four chapters (pfft who was I kidding), so buckle up for a long journey, guys!**

* * *

 _The_ _ **Lilac**_ _is associated with newfound beauty and infatuation. It is used to symbolize the transient feeling of falling in love for the first time._

…

A rose garden was a good place for a date.

Sherlock obviously did not know this from experience, but he was cognizant enough of social norms to understand that flowers were generally considered positive entities, so the fact that he was here with John was probably a good thing. It was their second time meeting with each other and Sherlock had spent the entire morning looking forward to it. Just as they'd done yesterday, the two of them were currently making their way around the garden, leisurely admiring the flowers.

"I meant to ask yesterday, but what do you do for a living?" John questioned as he observed the freshly-watered roses.

Sherlock puffed out his chest. "I am a consulting detective."

John raised a brow. "Never heard of it."

"I should think not. I'm the only one in the world. I invented the profession."

"What do you do?"

"When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"Well, what can you do that the police can't?"

"For one, I can deduce. I can look at my surroundings and piece together conclusions about a number of things. And two, I am a genius."

John didn't look away from the roses, but his mouth ticked up in a smile. "Can you deduce me?"

"Of course," Sherlock answered confidently. He looked John up and down for a moment, his eyes narrowed. "Aside from what you've already told me, I know that your father was abusive, your mother died early in your childhood, alcoholism runs in your family, you don't have much money, you and your sister have a strained relationship, you've gone through bouts of depression, PTSD, and survivor's guilt since your discharge, and when you were ten years old, you broke your left thumb."

When a long, terrible silence followed, Sherlock began to wonder if he'd said too much. Seconds ticked by and John still didn't say anything.

Dammit. He'd definitely crossed a line.

Dread swept through Sherlock like a wave. Why couldn't he have pointed out something inconsequential and small, like the fact that he knew John had a fondness for writing because there were blisters on his ring finger and thumb? Why couldn't he have mentioned that he knew John was a solider from the moment he met him because of the way John squared his shoulders and made full eye contact when he was being addressed? Why did he have to bring up painful, possibly traumatizing, events on their second bloody day of being with each other? Why he was such a freak? Why couldn't he do anything right? Now, thanks to his thoughtlessness, he'd just scared away the only decent person he'd ever met.

Sherlock stood still as a statue, not even daring to breathe, and waited for the inevitable moment when John would sneer at him for being so insensitive and walk away, out of Sherlock's life forever.

"Eleven," John said at last, his expression unreadable.

Sherlock blinked several times. The response was so unexpected that Sherlock's brain nearly got whiplash trying to process it. "What?"

John looked back at the roses. "I was eleven years old when I broke my thumb, not ten."

"Oh."

"Do you want to know how I broke it?"

This was taking an odd turn, but he was willing to go along with it if it meant keeping John around. "Yes."

"Good."

John sat down on the bench and beckoned Sherlock to join him. Sherlock eagerly obliged, flooded with relief that John apparently wasn't leaving.

"It was the middle of summer," John began, settling into the story. "Harry had been begging me day in and day out to take her to the park so we could fly the kites our grandmother had given us _._ I kept telling her no, because the walk to the park was long and the weather was hot, and I didn't want to have to pull her in her red wagon all the way there.

"But then, a day came in the middle of June when the weather was absolutely _perfect_. The sky was blue, the wind was cool, the sun was shining behind white clouds—it was just a gorgeous day. So, finally, I said yes. Everything went swimmingly once we got there: Harry and I flew our kites, skipped rocks on the pond, fed the ducks, all that fun stuff. It wasn't until we were about to leave that things went a bit sideways. See, right as I was packing up our stuff, Harry ran over to me and starting crying, saying her kite had got all tangled up in the tree branches. I tried to tell her it was fine, we could buy her a new one or she could have mine, but she would not stop sobbing. So, I went over to the tree and told her I'd get it out myself.

"Now, keep in mind, I had never climbed a tree before. As a kid, I loved sports. Loved football, loved rugby. However, I was by no means a skilled climber. I was terrible at it actually, which I'm sure my year six gym teacher could easily confirm." John smiled to himself and shook his head. "But, anyway, I ascended the tree, despite my grave lack of dexterity, and somehow managed to perch on one of the thicker branches and untangle Harry's kite. I was rather pleased with myself, until it occurred to me that I had no idea how to get down. Of course, scrambling down the tree was an option, but I feared that my shoe would slip and I would end up in a heap on the ground with a broken leg. The only other choice was to jump and try to land like a cat—I remembered hearing once that it was best to land on all fours. So, against my better judgement, I grabbed Harry's kite and leapt out of the tree. It felt like I was falling for minutes and minutes, but, looking back, it couldn't have been more than three or four seconds. I did manage to land on all fours—wouldn't advise it, by the way—but my hand was at an odd angle when I hit the ground, so my thumb ended up crushed between my palm and the floor. Harry's kite was saved, so she was quite pleased, but _I_ wasn't, because I had to pull her and her wagon all the way back to our house with a busted thumb and grass stains all over my new trousers."

Sherlock's mind was buzzing with the plethora of new data about John. _Protective of family, fond, nostalgic, close bond with sister (currently estranged), good story teller, longing for a simpler time, athletic past, caretaker complex…_

Unable to think of anything to say, Sherlock blurted out the first thing to pop into his head. "I like hearing you speak, John."

"Well, I like hearing you speak, too," John replied, a smile playing on his lips. "I thought your deductions were brilliant. Didn't care for the subjects themselves, but the way you pieced everything together was bloody incredible. Right on the nose."

 _Brilliant? Incredible?_ "So you're not angry?"

"Nope.

"Are you sure?"

John grinned and bumped his shoulder companionably into Sherlock's. "I knew you'd be a git from the moment I met you, so it's not like any of this came as a surprise."

"Git?" Sherlock repeated, affronted. He'd meant to come up with something clever and witty after that, but he was too focused on the feeling of John's arm pressed against his to bother finishing the retort.

"Don't worry," John smiled, leaning into him a bit more. "I say 'git' the same way other people might say 'most interesting bloke I've ever met'."

* * *

 _Good things in life_

 _Blue eyes_

 _Dark blonde hair_

 _Former army doctors_

 _Talking with John Watson_

 _John Watson_

 _Bad things in life_

 _John leaving_

 _Limited visiting hours_

 _Not talking to John_

 _Boredom_

* * *

"You know, Sherlock," Dr. Ford said, stirring her cup of morning coffee, "with some of my other patients, I've found that their problems were primarily caused by their suppression of self."

Sherlock was lying supine on the couch, one arm flung behind his head, the other resting on his abdomen. He closed his eyes, blocking out the irritating sight of Dr. Ford's overly-earnest expression. "That phrase alone makes me ill."

"Sexuality, for example," Dr. Ford continued, undeterred. "In the past, some of my male clients realized that their substance abuse stemmed from their latent homosexual desires. Drugs or alcohol were ways for them to numb those feelings and deny their existence."

Sherlock sighed long-sufferingly. "Dr. Ford, I can assure you, whatever _homosexual desires_ I possess are far from latent. I accept them, embrace them—whatever. My sexual orientation is the least of my worries, and always has been."

She raised a brow. "Are you quite sure about that?"

"Is this because of what I said about John Watson yesterday?"

"Yes."

"Well, I like John quite a lot," he stated, even though she hadn't asked.

"I'm aware. In what way?"

Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Is it your business?"

"As your therapist, yes."

" _Fine,"_ Sherlock grumbled. "I like him in a way that is not entirely platonic. _"_

She tapped her pen against her notebook, steady as a drumbeat. "I see."

"To address the question you're clearly dying to ask, I'm not straight. I'm—" he waved his hand in a vague gesture "—whatever it is I am."

"And what might that be?"

He sighed impatiently. "Labels bore me, Dr. Ford. If this is all you intend to discuss today, then kindly let me leave."

"Sherlock, please do not mistake this line of questioning for judgement, I am simply trying to help you," Dr. Ford said. "You are, of course, free to utilize or reject whatever labels you want."

"So pleased to have your approval," Sherlock muttered.

She flipped to a fresh page of her notebook. "How did your family feel about your sexuality when you were young, Sherlock?"

A vivid memory of their cleaning lady's son, Julian Gonzales, flashed before Sherlock's eyes. They were fourteen years old, skipping stones on the lake by the garden, when Sherlock decided to conduct an impromptu experiment and press his lips to Julian's. It felt good, so they kept at it, until Siger Holmes rounded the corner, balked at what was occurring, and angrily pried them apart. Michelle Gonzales was fired later that day and she and her son were booted from the premises immediately.

"My father was disappointed, but I was already a strange child, so my attraction to other boys was hardly noteworthy," Sherlock announced boredly. "My mother was uneasy with the idea, but never actively tried to stop me from pursuing anyone, so I suppose she was a bit less severe. Mycroft took my 'sexuality' for it was—which is to say, nothing remarkable. He treated me exactly the same."

"That's good," Dr. Ford nodded, jotting something down. "It's always beneficial to have a sibling's acceptance."

"You make it sound so maudlin," Sherlock complained, tossing his forearm over his eyes.

She stabbed a period onto her last sentence, then put down her pen. "Are you concerned with John's sexuality?"

"I've known John for two days, Dr. Ford," Sherlock said flatly, without uncovering his eyes. "I think it's a bit soon to start pondering his romantic preferences."

"I am merely trying to help you see obstacles that may arise in the future, Sherlock," Dr. Ford explained patiently. "That way, you can deal with them in a healthy, productive manner."

"You mean you're trying to prepare me for John being straight and having no interest in me," Sherlock clarified.

"Yes."

"Well," Sherlock said, sitting up, "I am pleased to inform you that those measures are unnecessary, Dr. Ford, because I have no intention of letting John Watson get in my head."

* * *

As it turned out, John Watson was already in his head and apparently had no intention of leaving. Whereas before Sherlock had spent hours lazily reminiscing on past cases and pondering the glory days of his cocaine addiction, he now could think only of John. John's eyes, John's hair, the way he said Sherlock's name, the rough calluses on his palm, the wry curve of his smile—all of these tantalizing images swam before Sherlock's vision constantly, like mirages. In a way, his infatuation with John felt exactly like being high. Minus the crippling hangover, of course.

Dr. Ford had planted that small seed of thought into his head, and now he couldn't stop wondering about John's _preferences._ Did Sherlock even stand a chance? Was it worth the struggle? In truth, Sherlock wasn't even sure what he wanted from John. A romantic relationship? A companion? Everything was still quite blurred, but it would have been nice to know that the option was there, at least. To know he had a sliver of a chance.

"Mr. Holmes, your medication," the nurse croaked as she pushed open his door, spilling light from the hallway into his darkened room. "And your brother called earlier."

Sherlock sat up from his position in bed and begrudgingly accepted the paper cup of pills, swallowing them in one dry gulp. He pointedly did not comment on the latter half of her message.

"Did you hear what I said, Mr. Holmes? Your brother phoned for you."

"I heard," Sherlock replied flatly, lying back down.

"Well, he left a message. Would you like to hear it?"

"No," he answered resolutely, folding his hands atop his chest and shutting his eyes. "I'd really rather not. Now, if you could shut off the light on the way out, that would be splendid."

(It was easier to daydream about John's face when the room was dark)

* * *

On Wednesday, exactly one week after their first meeting, John's shirt was blue.

"That color makes your eyes resemble the ocean," Sherlock pointed out as he approached John in the garden. "And the khaki slacks bring out the golden hue of your hair."

"Fashion expert _and_ consulting detective?" John joked. He smiled when Sherlock scowled in response. "I like your shirt too. Purple is definitely your color."

"Oh—er, I…um," Sherlock fumbled, flustered and caught off guard. He felt like a complete fool for getting so worked up over a casual compliment, but it seemed that _anything_ John said was liable to make him tongue-tied. Valiantly, he cleared his throat and tried to regain his composure.

"It's plum, actually."

"Of course it's plum," John teased, kindly ignoring Sherlock's brief mental lapse. "In the past twenty-four hours, I nearly forgot how posh you are."

"I am not posh!"

"Right, and the sky isn't blue."

"Technically, it isn't, it's just a reflection of the—" he stopped at the smug look on John's face and pouted. "Shut up, John."

John laughed. "Don't worry, I love it." He patted the seat next to him, and Sherlock sat obligingly. "So, you were saying something about my eyes and the ocean?"

"Yes. Your irises have layers of blue mixed with stormy charcoal and light grey," Sherlock answered without thinking. "They're as deep as the sea."

Sherlock winced after he finished speaking, worried that John might be disturbed by the (perhaps inappropriate) thoroughness of that answer. However, as usual, John didn't miss a beat.

"Thank you," John beamed, his eyes bright. "You know, Sherlock, that was quite a lovely description. I'd say you're a poet and didn't even know it."

Sherlock groaned. "John, rhyming is for infants. Please don't."

John only chuckled and leaned closer to Sherlock. The sensation of John's arm pressed against his was lovely; He didn't move away and neither did John.

"Can I ask you something, Sherlock?" John said.

"Of course."

"Of all places, why did you choose to come _here_ last week? Why not the entertainment room or the gym?"

These past few days, he'd pondered the question himself, both amazed and terrified by how different things could have been had he not decided to go to the garden on the exact day John had. What if he'd chosen a day when John was with Harry? What if he hadn't come here at all and they missed each other entirely? It made Sherlock's head hurt to think about how many small factors could have prevented them from meeting.

"Well, I love nature," Sherlock answered truthfully. Loitering among sweet-smelling flowers and admiring the bees was far more enjoyable than gazing dully at a television or running around in a sweaty, bustling gym.

"I love nature, too," John rejoined, his eyes following the lazy path of a butterfly. "It's peaceful."

"Why did you come here last week, John?"

"To get a break from Harry," John answered succinctly.

"What happened?"

John offered a tight smile and shook his head. "That's a story for another time. Let's go back to talking about nature. What do you love about it?"

"The creatures, I suppose. I prefer dogs and bees to most people."

"Dogs and bees," John repeated. He didn't seem to find that answer odd. "I like dogs as well. Had one when I was growing up. He was a German Sheppard named Gladstone—my dad was obsessed with British politicians. He was my best friend for most of my childhood."

"Mine was an Irish Setter named Redbeard," said Sherlock. "I was deeply infatuated with pirates as a child and woefully uncreative, as you can see."

The crow's feet around John's eyes crinkled in a smile. "And what about the bees?"

"Bees are complex, diligent creatures with admirable work ethic." Sherlock gazed at a cluster of bright flowers where a pair of bees were gathering pollen. "And they're quite lovely to look at as well."

"I can see why you prefer them to most people, then," John agreed.

"Well, to be fair, I like _you_ better than a bee," Sherlock said, his eyes falling to John's shoes in some absurd moment of shyness.

John just smiled and bumped his shoulder lightly into Sherlock's. "Good. Because I fancy you quite a lot too."

…

"John fancies me," Sherlock told Dr. Ford the next morning. He didn't realize he was jiggling his leg in excitement until she raised an eyebrow at the shaking coffee table. But even then, he didn't stop. How could he be expected to sit still when it felt as if there was champagne bubbling in his veins?

"I see you're pleased by this," she noted with a touch of amusement.

* * *

For the first time since his arrival, Sherlock decided to eat his lunch in the cafeteria. It was a choice made perhaps a _bit_ too hastily, because the moment he set foot into the loud, odd-smelling menagerie of patients, he began to feel doubt creep in.

On a good day, Sherlock Holmes was not terribly fond of people—let alone several _chemically-addled_ people with a variety of mental issues—so this venture did not bode well for him. Still, he'd woken up in the best mood he'd had in years, and felt that he needed to do something remarkable and out of the ordinary to celebrate.

This bold adventure into the unknown certainly qualified as both.

Sherlock ignored his surroundings, thoroughly uninterested in conversing with any of the hollow-eyed, sickly people around him, and chose the most remote corner he could find. There, he nibbled idly on the corner of his sandwich and thought about John. Sharp, funny, intelligent John, with his bright blue eyes and stupid, wonderful smile.

The thing was, people generally did not like Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes, they tolerated him when they considered him a means to an end, like when he was seventeen and Victor Trevor pretended to like him just to get in his pants, or when he was at Uni and a girl named Janice Wesley befriended him solely for the purpose of getting him to do her Chemistry homework. Aside from those instances, however, _people_ and _Sherlock_ simply did not mix. It was a fact he learned to accept a long, long time ago.

Therefore, John was an anomaly: a random blip that somehow did not coincide with previous data. A bloody outlier, he was.

And as much as Sherlock would have loved to simply bask in the fact that the most remarkable man he'd ever met was somehow fond of him, he couldn't help but feel wracked with worry. What if he said the wrong thing? What if he did something to upset or offend John? What would it take for John to grow tired of their meetings in the garden? What if he didn't care for Sherlock in the way Sherlock cared for him?

Sherlock supposed he ought to content himself with only having John's friendship, but a small, aching part of him couldn't help but yearn for more.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for reading, darlings! I'd love to know what you think, so please let me know in the comments. Your feedback is vital!**

 **Update will be sometime next week, either Saturday or Sunday, so don't forget to sub/follow if you haven't already. (I'll probably have a concrete updating schedule figured out by next week)**

 **Until next time!**


	3. Blue Iris

**A/N: Sorry for the late update, guys, finals week is** _ **killing**_ **me. *x-eyed emoji* I'm having so much fun with this story, and it's great to read the comments and see how much you guys are enjoying it too :) Can't thank y'all enough for the wonderful feedback!**

* * *

 _The_ _ **Blue Iris**_ _is associated with loyalty and cherished relationships among kin. The blade-shaped foliage denotes the pain that family can sometimes cause, while the rich yellow center represents the everlasting, resilient nature of familial love._

…

A week later, John was ten minutes late to their meeting.

"I have absolutely _had it_ with Harry," John growled, storming into the garden like a hurricane. His anger flourished around him, bright and burning like fire, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel utterly captivated _._ He didn't enjoy seeing John upset, of course, but this was the first time John had been anything but calm in Sherlock's presence, and it would have been a complete waste if Sherlock didn't observe him. John's blue eyes were sharp and scorching with ire, his face was flushed pink, his breathing was slightly labored instead of steady and even, and his tanned, strong hands were clenched into fists at his sides, the tendons of his fingers pulled taut like cords. The sweet, beguiling garden, with all of its gentle flowers and placid creatures, seemed to part for John like the red sea, curling away from the sheer power and rage emanating from him.

"John," Sherlock breathed, more than a bit flustered. He gripped the edge of the bench to steady himself. Seeing John like this made him feel some strange combination of alarmed, aroused, confused, and fascinated as bloody hell. For the first time, he was truly getting a sense of what Captain John Watson must have been like all those years ago in the dunes of Afghanistan: powerful, commanding, and radiating authority.

Suffice to say, Sherlock's brain was little more than a puddle at this point.

"Sorry, I know you're probably wondering where this is coming from," John muttered, running a hand restlessly through his hair. The honey colored strands caught the sunlight and gleamed like gold. "It's my sister," he explained, sitting down next to Sherlock with a huff. "She's being unreasonable again."

Sherlock took a few calming breaths to compose himself ( _stop blushing stop blushing stop blushing_ ) and then looked at John with the appropriate mix of curiosity and concern. "What has she done?"

John never spoke openly about his relationship with his sister, but from what Sherlock had deduced, their relationship was strained for multiple reasons. Harry's alcoholism was certainly one of the biggest causes, of course, but Sherlock knew their issues also had to do with the fact that they were much too similar. _That good old Watson stubbornness_ , as John had once said. Both of them were always convinced that they were right and the other was wrong, and neither was ever willing to give in. Harry resented John for treating her like a child and acting as her guardian all throughout their lives—for, in her eyes, John was just trying to control her for the sake of his ego—while John resented Harry for being ungrateful for the guidance and affection he'd offered her after their mother's death—for, from John's perspective, all he'd done was take care of his sister and help her through hard times. Both of these views were true in some respect, but because of John and Harry's staunch refusal to give in to the other's point of view, they were perpetually locked in a bitter, tense relationship wherein everything was left unsaid and nothing was properly dealt with.

 _But_ Sherlock was not about to lecture John about this, because he knew that he and his brother had their own rubbish heap of issues to deal with, and he was never one to be a hypocrite. Besides, he was inclined to side with John anyway because he knew John's intentions truly were pure; in spite of all Harry's flaws, John felt only love and affection for her. That much was made clear whenever he recounted a story of their childhood to Sherlock, his words practically oozing nostalgia and fondness.

John shook his head. "I don't even know where to begin. This morning has just been such a sodding _mess."_ He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I told you my late mum's birthday is this Friday, didn't I?"

"Yes, last week."

"Right. Well, I went to that little flower shop on the corner of Lalour and Hemmings this morning to find something nice for our mother, but then I remembered how angry Harry was last year for 'not including her' in the process. So, I grabbed a pamphlet to bring back here instead. The idea was to simply let Harry pick the bouquet, thus avoiding all conflict." John scowled. "First of all, let me just say, believing that conflict could be avoided in any plan involving Harrietwas a _huge_ oversight on my part. To think my sister could put aside her issues with our mother long enough to point out the right sodding color of roses, was ridiculous, I now realize. Because for any of that to happen, Harry would have to be mature and reasonable. Unfortunately, she is neither of those things, so the moment I started talking about mum, Harry threw a fit. She told me that she was 'already going through enough shit as it was' and for me to 'burden her' with all of these bad memories was 'sick'." John dropped his head in his hands, defeated and sapped of his anger. "Flowers, Sherlock," John mumbled into his palms. "I just wanted her to help me pick some bleeding _flowers."_

It seemed like the right thing to do, so Sherlock dropped a comforting hand onto John's knee. "That is by no means an unreasonable request, John. I'm curious, though: what issue does Harry have with your mother?"

John raised his head and sighed. "Okay, well, let me start by saying, Harry isn't wrong to be angry."

"No?"

"No. Mum wasn't great when we were kids. As you so astutely deduced two weeks ago, my father was…rough with us." He cleared his throat. "Mum never did anything to stop him. She would just scamper out of the room, or leave for the weekend and stay with her sister, Delilah. At times, she would disappear for days and days without picking up her phone. That, of course, made our father even angrier and with no one else around, he would take it out on us."

"If that's true, then how are you able to forgive her, John?" Sherlock asked. "Why aren't you as angry as Harry?"

He definitely sided with Harry on this; their mother's actions were inexcusable, weren't they? The mere thought of someone hurting John (either through aggression or passivity), made Sherlock's blood boil.

"Because," John exhaled, "she loved us. I knew our mother for four years longer than Harry did, so maybe I see that more clearly than she does. It was the little things, I guess. Playing with Harry and I in the park, taking us out on picnics when our father wasn't home, teaching us silly songs while we cleaned up the house. She adored us, she just didn't know how to protect us. Hell, she couldn't even protect herself. So, when she…ended her life, I felt more pity for her than anything. I wasn't angry. I wasn't bitter. As painful as it was to excuse her behavior, I understood why she'd been the way she'd been and I accepted it. When they buried her, they buried every last bit of my resentment as well. I let her go, Sherlock, and Harry didn't. She still hasn't. That's why we have this row every year. She accuses me of looking down on her for not being as 'selfless and pure' as I claim to be, and then I accuse her of being stubborn and unreasonable for refusing to sit down and bloody listen to what I'm trying to tell her." John ran a hand tiredly through his hair. "Like I said, Sherlock, it's a mess."

"I still don't understand why you've forgiven your mother," Sherlock said. "Or even Harriet, for that matter."

"Because," John said simply, "they're family."

"So, you're telling me that you are willing to overlook years of pain and emotional damage all because they're your _family_?" Sherlock asked dubiously.

"Yes, because they're my family. That's why I've been able to forgive my mother, and that's why I'll never stop visiting Harry, even when she's chucked a ceramic vase at my head and called me selfish. Even when she's screamed herself hoarse about how proud and controlling I am. Even when she's threatened to delete my bloody number and never speak to me again because I'm a terrible excuse for a sibling. I _still_ will not abandon her."

Sherlock stared at John in awe, both fascinated and befuddled by his reasoning. "Why?"

John shrugged. "It's important to forgive family, Sherlock. They're all you have in the end."

* * *

The next morning, Dr. Ford's choice of topic fit seamlessly with his and John's discussion.

"So, Sherlock," she began, setting her ceramic mug on the table, atop a plaid coaster. "How have things been with your family?"

Sherlock folded his hands on his chest, his long, lean figure posed supine on the sofa. "Funny you should mention them, because John and I were just having a conversation about family yesterday afternoon."

"Did anything noteworthy come up?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "John did make an interesting point. He said that it is important to forgive your family no matter what. Well, unless they've done something egregious, of course, like John's father. If they haven't, though, and they are simply dysfunctional or frustrating—or, in Harriet's case, both—then it's best to make amends and stand by them."

"John sounds like a wise man," Dr. Ford commented.

"Yes, of course he is," Sherlock said, dismissing the obvious observation. "But I'm wondering if that rule is something _everyone_ should adhere to. Take my family, for example: my mother and father were both quite indifferent towards me throughout my childhood, they live in completely different countries because they can't stand each other, and neither of them approves of a single aspect of my life, aside from, perhaps, the smattering of degrees I collected from Uni some time ago. They abhor my lack of heterosexuality, they dismiss the validity of my job, they look down on me for my addiction, and they constantly compare me to Mycroft, who, in their eyes, is the bloody epitome of perfection. So," Sherlock continued, "why on earth would I bother trying to make amends with them? We don't like each other, simple as that. If I try to force a relationship between the three of us, won't that just be a nuisance for everyone involved?"

Dr. Ford drummed her pen against her tablet. "Relationships between parents and children are often quite complex things to mend, Sherlock, so I understand your reservations. Why not start somewhere a bit closer to home, then?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I've been told you haven't been taking your brother's phone calls for months, is that true?"

 _Ah, yes. Mycroft_. "Yes, that is true."

"And why is that, Sherlock?"

If she had asked Sherlock this question only three weeks ago, he would have said _Because he dumped me in this hellhole to rot_ , without a beat of hesitation. Now, however, he couldn't bring himself to complain, because if he hadn't come here, he never would have met John. And since John was easily the best thing to ever waltz into Sherlock's life, he couldn't help but feel some form of gratitude for his brother's intervention. As terrible as it seemed at the time, New Beginnings _had_ ended up changing his life for the better.

"I…don't know," he said at length. "I suppose my reasoning in the past no longer applies."

"Well, that is lovely to hear, Sherlock, because that means you can begin the healing process."

Sherlock cringed at the phrase but valiantly did not comment on it. "And what might the first step be?"

"Answering the next time he calls would be a good place to start."

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. "And what should I say?"

"What would you like to say?"

Ideally, Sherlock would like to pick up the phone and somehow communicate his apologies to Mycroft solely through complete and utter silence. _Telepathy would be such a useful skill_ , he thought longingly.

Unfortunately, that wasn't an option, which meant that he would have to verbally say sorry to his brother, and hope Mycroft didn't attempt to elongate the torturous experience.

"I suppose I'll figure it out when I speak to him," Sherlock resolved.

* * *

A few days later, Sherlock walked into the garden and found an unfamiliar woman sitting on his and John's bench. At first, he was outraged that someone else dared to sit in John's spot, then he was confused as to why they were out here in the first place, and, finally, he found himself worried that this was a messenger that had been sent to deliver bad news about John. The last one was fairly unlikely, but fear and worry plagued him nonetheless.

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded, once he was within earshot.

"I'm—"

He frowned and held up a hand to stop her. Her eyes were blue, her skin was scattered with pale freckles, and her hair was a goldish-brown, dirty blonde color that Sherlock would recognize anywhere.

"You're Harriet, aren't you?"

The woman blinked in surprise. "Yeah. I am."

Now that he was certain of her identity, Sherlock examined her with a keener eye. She, like John, was short and somewhat stocky, with a strong jaw and a clear voice. However, everything about her was a bit _angrier_ than John, from the challenging glint in her eyes to the almost aggressive width of her stance. Her body language said that she was raring to fight at a moment's notice: perpetually just a breath away from springing into a scuffle. She had a wildness in her that John did not possess. Whereas John was steadiness and quiet strength and innate authority, Harry was impulsivity and fleeting passion and heedless chaos. He couldn't say if she was pretty or not (though he supposed her ample figure and strong features could be considered attractive) but there was certainly something compelling about her, something that caught his attention in the same way that John had.

(It went without saying that there was absolutely no comparison between the two of them—it would be like comparing the glorious, blindingly-bright sun to a single star.)

"And I am Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said, offering his hand. "Good to meet you."

She stared at his hand for a long moment before she took it. "So you're the guy John runs to when we have a row?"

"I suppose you could say that."

"Hmph." She crossed her arms over her chest and looked him over, her eyes narrowed in scrutiny. After a moment, she mumbled, "Johnny wasn't exaggerating, I guess."

Sherlock raised a brow. "Exaggerating about what?"

"You. Your looks."

Warmth crept up Sherlock's throat, threatening to make its way to his cheeks. "What about them?"

"You're a good looking bloke, Sherlock Holmes," Harry said, almost accusingly. Her gaze softened somewhat when she noticed the ridiculous color rising on his cheeks. "If I weren't into women, I'm sure I would be head over heels too."

Too? _Too?_

 _Didn't that imply that someone else was head over heels for Sherlock? Was Harry referring to—_

"But anyway, I didn't come here just to inflate your ego. I came here to tell you that Johnny's not gonna be able to make it for the rest of this week. The clinic's low on staff members, so he's got to step up and take on double shifts." She examined her nails. "He wanted me to let you know so you didn't freak out."

"Ah," Sherlock said. Disappointment and dread crashed through him like a tsunami. He hadn't gone a single day without seeing John for a month—he wasn't sure he'd be able to stand not speaking with him for an entire week. Just the thought made him ill.

"He'll be back on Monday, Sherlock," Harry said, in a half-hearted attempt to comfort him. "Besides, distance makes the heart grow fonder or something, right?"

* * *

Two long, endlessly boring, John-free days later, Mycroft phoned him and Sherlock answered for the first time in three months. It seemed that his brother was just as surprised by this development as Sherlock himself, because the first thing out of his mouth was, "You're answering _now_? After months of ignoring me?"

There didn't seem to be a complex answer to this question, so Sherlock simply replied, "Yes."

"Pray tell, what has made today different than any other? Why pick now, of all times?"

"Because," Sherlock began, "I've met someone who convinced me it was a good idea."

When Sherlock didn't elaborate, Mycroft hazarded a guess. "Your therapist?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, not my therapist. Though, I will admit, Dr. Ford hasn't been nearly as intolerable as I thought she would be."

"Then who? Did you meet someone who is a patient there as well?"

At that, Sherlock scoffed. "Certainly not. Everyone here is insipid."

(The cluster of patients who were passing by in the hallway stopped and stared at him, clearly offended, and Sherlock felt the brief, childish urge to stick his tongue out at them.)

"Then whom have you met, Sherlock? Unless you'd like to sit here all day long playing guessing games, I suggest you tell me now and save us both the trouble."

"Fine," Sherlock said, more than happy to rave about John. "His name is John Watson. He isn't a patient, but his sister is here for her alcoholism, and we met when he was visiting her last month. He has blonde hair and blue eyes, though not the conventional shade of blonde or blue—more like brownish-gold and deep, dark navy—and his hands are strong and tan from working as an army doctor in Afghanistan for several years…"

…

"…his favorite childhood memory was sewing Harry's costume for her school's Christmas pageant when she was eight, because that was back when she looked up to him and openly accepted his help. I suspect she still admires him and considers him a role model of hers, but the years of built up resentment and conflict have no doubt stifled her ability to productively express emotion. John, being the patient man that he is, will never give up on her though, so she'll never have to worry about him abandoning her. Anyway," Sherlock said, pausing for the first time in about twenty minutes, "where was I going with this?"

"You were telling me every minute detail of John Watson's life, I believe," Mycroft supplied drily. "And do congratulate yourself, because _mission accomplished_. I am quite sure I could write his biography, given how much I know now about the man."

"I would read it," Sherlock mused. He shook his head and refocused. "But that isn't where I intended to go with that tangent; I meant to say that John has opened my eyes to the true role of family. He says one should forgive their family no matter what, because family is the most important thing."

"Good god, Sherlock," Mycroft complained. "I wish you would have told me this was leading somewhere mawkish; I would've made an excuse to hang up ages ago."

"Yes, and that is exactly why I didn't say anything," Sherlock fired back. "Just listen, Mycroft, I'd rather not make this experience any longer than it has to be either."

"Fine."

Sherlock made a show of clearing his throat. "Yes, alright, well, as I was saying, John believes that one should stick by their family's side no matter what they have done in the past, even if it's something terrible or annoying or incredibly frustrating."

 _Here came the hard part._ "And that's the reason why I picked up today, Mycroft. Because I wanted to," he stopped, the words caught on the tip of his tongue. "I wanted to—to…"

"Are you quite alright over there, Sherlock?"

 _Get the bloody words out, you ninny!_ "Because I wanted to apologize," Sherlock said in a rush.

"Apologize?" Mycroft repeated.

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and ripped off the metaphorical Band-Aid. "Yes. I shouldn't have waited so long to speak with you. I was angry and frustrated and bitter. You did what was best for me, Mycroft, and without your intervention I would not have met John. So, for that, I say _thank you."_

"I don't know what to say, Sherlock," Mycroft said after a moment. "This means a lot,"

Sherlock covered his face with his free hand and groaned. "Mycroft, don't make a big deal out of it, please. Just say 'okay' and let's move on."

"Such beautiful words, spun so sincerely," Mycroft continued melodramatically. "Why, poets of generations past could not begin to compare to such eloquence…"

"Mycroft..." Sherlock said warningly.

Mycroft chuckled, clearly amused with himself. "I'm simply trying to enjoy this rare occasion, Sherlock. It isn't every day that you say you're sorry."

"Christ, would you like it engraved on a plaque?"

"No, no, committing it to memory shall be more than enough," Mycroft replied, laughter still coloring his voice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You know, Sherlock," Mycroft said after a moment, "you sound different. I couldn't place it at first, but I believe I now know what it is." He paused. "I never thought I would say this, brother, but you sound— _happy_."

Something warm and light unfurled in Sherlock's chest. "I _am_ happy."

"Because of John?"

"Because of John," Sherlock agreed. "I fancy him and he fancies me as well."

Sherlock didn't bother mentioning the strange grey-area they were currently in, nor did he mention the fact that John wasn't even aware of Sherlock's feelings yet. He much preferred to keep things simple and uncomplicated, especially when explaining this to his brother.

"Oh!" Mycroft sounded surprised. "I simply thought…"

"You thought what?"

"Well, I thought perhaps the interest was one-sided," Mycroft said carefully. After a beat of uncomfortable silence, he added, "You do remember Victor, don't you?"

Sherlock flexed his jaw and stared down at the linoleum floor. "I'd rather not talk about that, Mycroft."

Thankfully, Mycroft took the hint and didn't linger. "My apologies. Now then, back to the subject of Doctor Watson. I would like to meet him."

"What? Why?"

"Well, Sherlock, as impossible as it may seem, I _do_ care about your happiness and well-being. I would like nothing more than to meet the person who has changed your life for the better. And I have no doubt that he'll impress me," Mycroft continued, "because anyone who pleases you so much _must_ be remarkable."

Sherlock tried to imagine his brother and John Watson in a room together, but his brain couldn't form the picture. Not only were they vastly different people, they also belonged to completely separate parts of Sherlock's life; for them to come together and exist on the same plane seemed catastrophic. Still, as uneasy as the notion made him, he couldn't deny the small part of his heart that ached for his brother's approval; it was a small bit, one that had eroded over the years and disappeared into the rubble, but it was there nonetheless and he could not ignore it. Strange as it was, it seemed vital that Mycroft meet John.

Besides, it would offer a wonderful chance to show off John, and Sherlock Holmes was never one to turn down a good opportunity.

"Fine," Sherlock nodded, even though Mycroft couldn't see him. "Do you know when this meeting will take place?"

"Who knows, my schedule is constantly in flux. I will, however, promise you one phone call a week. After missing so much time, I think it is important that you and I stay in contact."

"Fair enough," Sherlock conceded.

"Good." Mycroft sounded pleased. "I'm glad you picked up the phone, Sherlock."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "I suppose I am, too."

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone! The next chapter will be up sometime next week, so make sure to sub/follow!**

 **Oh, and don't forget to leave a comment telling me what you think! :***


	4. White Camellia

**A/N: Thanks for being so patient, guys! These past two weeks have been a blur of college apps and holiday chaos, so it's a relief t finally have a bit of time to get back to writing. I had a blast wiring this chapter, so I hope you guys like it too! Let me know what you think in the comments, your feedback means the world!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _The_ ** _White Camellia_** _symbolizes the deep, rich longing that often accompanies first love. Unlike the Bleeding Heart flower, which embodies painful unrequited love, the Camellia represents a sweet yearning that is filled with hope._

…

When John finally came back after those excruciating seven days, the garden around Sherlock seemed to burst with renewed color and life. Suddenly, the bees looked healthier, the roses appeared brighter, and the air smelled sweet with fragrant flowers and honey, as if nature's perfume was amplified by John's presence.

"So," John said, as they made their way around the garden, "you met Harry."

"I did."

John raised a brow at him, a faint smile playing on his features. "Thoughts?"

Sherlock took a breath, readying himself for a rather long reply. "Well, first of all, I can understand why the two of you butt heads quite often. She is unpredictable and wild, while you, in contrast, are steady and controlled. She frustrates you because she doesn't listen to you, and you frustrate her because you try to order her around. In short," he concluded, "you're both quite stubborn."

He wondered, briefly, if John would be offended by what he'd just said, but when he looked back at him, Sherlock realized he was smiling. Well, not quite smiling—it was more of a rueful grimace, but there was good humor shining in his eyes, so Sherlock wasn't worried.

"You're not wrong," John said. "Stubbornness runs in the family, I'm afraid."

"I also noticed that you two share several features," Sherlock continued. While this _was_ true, he was really only pointing it out so he'd have an excuse to scrutinize John's face for a bit longer than usual. "Your eye color is the same, and you both have a strong jaw."

John didn't flinch under Sherlock's lingering gaze. "I suppose. But her hair is brown, you know. Plus, she has freckles and I don't."

"That's true," Sherlock conceded. "But you're also quite similar in stature."

John raised a brow, catching the insinuation. "Would you care to elaborate on that?"

Sherlock indulged in a wry smirk. "You're both rather short, is what I meant."

"Oi! Just because you're bloody ten feet tall, doesn't mean the rest of the world is _short._ "

Sherlock turned his face towards the sun and smiled. "Six feet tall, John, not ten."

"Either way, you're still a giant. And I'll have you know that despite my 'stature', I can still kick arse if need be."

Sherlock didn't doubt that. John's strength was actually one of the first things Sherlock noticed about him. Buried beneath those cable knit jumpers and sensible trousers, was a powerful, brawny soldier who could probably haul Sherlock over his shoulder with ease if he wanted to.

"Yes, I'm well aware John."

"Anyway," John said, shoving his hands in his pockets, "Harry said that she likes you."

Sherlock raised a brow. "Really?"

John chuckled. "Yeah. And she also described you as 'strangely pretty'."

"The first part of that phrase makes sense," Sherlock said after a moment of consideration. He'd always known that he was strange-looking—his eyes were too pale, his cheekbones too pronounced, and his mouth too unequally proportioned. He'd come to accept it a long time ago. The only thing that gave him pause was the 'pretty' part. Sherlock was quite certain nothing about his appearance qualified as such.

John, however, looked baffled. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock sighed. "There's no need to coddle me, John, I know how I look, and it's fine. It's my mind that I truly value, anyway."

"Whoa, okay, wait just a minute," John said, coming to a halt on the path. Sherlock stopped too. "First of all, when Harry said 'strangely pretty', she just meant that she thinks you're very handsome and finds it strange, because she's attracted to women. And secondly, how on _earth_ do you think you look strange?"

This was quickly becoming a very odd, very uncomfortable interaction. "Well, do I need to spell it out John? My features are a bit—" he tried to dredge up some of the adjectives that he'd heard in the past, "—alien. Long face, overly large bottom lip, sharp, protruding bone structure, etcetera. None of it is…pretty." His face felt hot, embarrassment spilling through him like a flood. He hadn't spoken this extensively about his physical appearance in ages.

John was quiet for a long time, but his blue eyes kept trailing over Sherlock's face in search of something. Finally, he just shook his head and sighed.

"You really don't know, do you?"

"Know _what?_ " This was the first time in a long time that Sherlock had felt this lost during a conversation, and he didn't like it one bit.

John looked at him for a moment longer, his gaze softening, before he cleared his throat and turned his gaze back to the flowers. "Never mind."

…

As they continued talking and wandering about the garden, Sherlock debated whether or not he should tell John how desperately he'd missed him. It seemed like a tactless move, but for some reason, Sherlock felt that John needed to know just how important he was to Sherlock.

Right when he was considering how to stray from their discussion of strange dreams, John stopped in the middle of speaking and turned to him. "Sherlock, I know this may come across as a bit clingy, but this past week was absolutely terrible." He paused, catching Sherlock's eyes and then immediately glancing away. "And the reason it was terrible, was because I couldn't see you."

Sherlock halted. There was no way John just said what Sherlock thought he just said. "Pardon?"

John rubbed the back of his neck. "I missed you."

Sherlock stared at him in shock for several long moments and John stared back, looking more unsure of himself by the minute, until he eventually backtracked entirely. "Right, yeah, that was too much, wasn't it? I mean, we've only know each other for a month, I shouldn't have said anything, clearly I'm taking this farther than it—"

"I missed you too, John," Sherlock blurted out, hardly registering the words before they left his mouth.

John looked at him in surprise, his eyes filled with tentative hope. "You did?"

"Yes."

Sherlock wanted to keep going. He wanted to say, " _I couldn't sleep properly all week. It seemed as though the entire world was painted in shades of grey._ "

He wanted to say, " _I missed you desperately every single second and I don't care that we've only know each other for a month, because it feels like it's been a lifetime."_

He wanted to say, " _You are my new addiction, John. You are what I crave, what I want, what I need."_

He wanted to say _, "I've never felt like this about anyone and I don't know what to do because I'm afraid you might leave."_

However, even Sherlock recognized that it was far too soon in their friendship to say such things, so he held his tongue.

"Oh," John said after a moment. He blinked several times. "That's really—good. Er, to know, I mean. Good to know."

John seemed pleased by his answer: color was high on his cheeks and his dark blue eyes seemed to be sparkling. The fact that Sherlock was the cause of this made his heart sing; he liked being the reason for John's happiness.

While John went back to placidly admiring the roses, Sherlock dazedly mulled over the fact that John had missed him. He'd actually _missed_ Sherlock's presence, despite Sherlock's brusqueness and complete social ineptitude. Despite his awkward missteps and blunt outbursts. Despite his random bouts of pride and strange proclivities.

 _John had missed him._

* * *

"You look rather chipper this morning," Dr. Ford noted the next day. "Any particular reason?"

Sherlock tried to contain the ridiculous smile that was threatening to break across his face. "I learned some rather interesting information yesterday afternoon."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Apparently, John missed me while he was away at work last week."

Dr. Ford clicked her pen. "And how does that make you feel?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Pleased." After a beat, he added, "Surprised, too."

"And why does it surprise you?"

"Well, no one has ever missed me before," Sherlock answered honestly. "My parents were quite relieved when I finally left the house for Uni and never made any effort to spend time with me after that. Mummy and I haven't spoken in a year, and my father and I haven't spoken in five. The few times my mother has attempted to 'bond' with me have been absolute nightmares."

"What about your brother?"

Sherlock snorted. "Mycroft was always pleased to have me out of his sight. I caused him great stress when we were in close proximity, because he would constantly fret over all the 'trouble' I would get myself into. However, unlike my parents, I don't think his intentions were spiteful or cruel."

"Friends, then?"

"Right, yes, because I'm clearly the kind of person who has a lot of _friends,_ " Sherlock deadpanned. "If you're referring to Victor Trevor, he just wanted to have sex with me and then move on. And if you're referring to Janice Wesley, she only pretended to be my friend so I would do her Chemistry homework for her. The only friend that I haven't come to loathe is John. And, coincidentally, he is also the first person to miss me."

"John sounds like a good man," she said, as she scribbled something down on her notepad.

"He is." Sherlock sighed and leaned back in the sofa. "Certainly too good for me."

"You shouldn't think like that, Sherlock. From what you've told me, I get the impression that John Watson likes you very much."

"I suppose," Sherlock said after a moment. "I just can't imagine _why._ "

* * *

"I have a message to relay," Mycroft said the next evening, in his _You Are Not Going To Like This_ tone. "And I would like you to keep an open mind when you hear it."

Sherlock frowned and tightened his grip on the receiver. "Mycroft, if this has anything to do with Mummy…"

"Open mind, Sherlock," Mycroft said tightly. "Please."

He exhaled harshly. "Fine. Just spit it out, already. No need to hold me in suspense."

"I spoke with Mummy the other day and she mentioned how nice it would be to see you."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "And why on earth would she say that? We haven't spoken in a year."

"…I may have given her the impression that you'd met someone."

"You told her about John?" Sherlock hissed. "Why the bloody hell would you do that, Mycroft? You know how Mummy is!"

"Yes, I know, and I really didn't mean to mention anything, but I was telling her how you're doing much better at the clinic and of course she wanted to know _why_ , so I simply said you'd made a friend." Mycroft sighed. "But Mummy is as sharp as a tack, unfortunately, so it took her less than a minute to deduce that you and John are far more than 'just friends'."

"Mycroft," Sherlock said slowly. "Do you realize what you've done?"

"I know, Sherlock, it was a rather large oversight on my part. I shouldn't have said anything."

Sherlock groaned and let his head fall back against the wall. "She's going to be visiting me soon, isn't she?"

"Now, Sherlock, as I told you before, you should really keep an open mi—"

"Yes or no, Mycroft!?"

There was a long beat of silence, before Mycroft begrudgingly answered, "Yes."

Sherlock put his head in his hands in defeat, nearly dropping the phone in the process. "This is your bloody fault, so why must _I_ reap the consequences?"

"Well, you can take comfort in the fact that you won't be dealing with her alone, Sherlock," Mycroft said grimly. "She plans on checking you out so the three of us may go out to dinner and 'catch up'."

"That sounds terrible."

"Yes, I know, but we still have to go."

"Why? She's just going to sit there and complain about the food and criticize me for two hours."

"I know Mummy is a bit…much at times," Mycroft amended, "but weren't you the one who told me that it is important to forgive family, no matter what they have done?"

Sherlock glared at the floor, annoyed that his own words were being thrown back at him like this. "I did say that there were exceptions to that rule if the family member in question has done something egregious."

"Yes, but the worst crime Mummy has committed is being judgmental and nosy. That's hardly enough of a reason to estrange her, Sherlock."

He supposed Mycroft had a point, though he had no intention of admitting it. "Fine," he exhaled. "What day is she planning on visiting?"

"Sometime in the near future, she said. You know how she is, Sherlock. She likes to catch us by surprise."

"Yes, it's one of her most cherished traits," Sherlock muttered.

* * *

"Have you ever made lists?" Sherlock asked John the next day, drumming his fingers absently on the cover of the journal.

"Yes," John answered. "I've always found writing quite soothing. Sometimes, when things get particularly difficult, I sit down and write all the good things I have in my life, so I can remember there are still reasons to get up in the morning."

Sherlock nodded. "I've had to do that several times during my stay here. The patients were dull and the staff members were too cheery, and it was the only thing I found even slightly enjoyable—before meeting you, of course."

John smiled and leaned his shoulder into Sherlock's. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I want to know if you'd like to make one right now?"

Sherlock knew it was an odd request, but he could not fight the desire to have some small, concrete piece of John captured forever within the pages of his journal. Even just a scrap of John's handwriting was precious, and to have it immortalized alongside his own would be a treasure.

"Sure," John agreed. "I'll write mine on one page and you can write yours on the other one. Then when we're done, we'll read each other's."

"Brilliant." Sherlock fell in love with the idea even more when John scooted closer to him so that their bodies were pressed together from shoulder to elbow. He flipped the book open and rested it on his knee, offering one side to John and taking the other for himself. John shielded his page with his flattened palm so Sherlock couldn't see what he was writing.

 _Good things (today)_

 _Fair weather for carpenter bees_

 _John is here_

 _The sky is the color of John's eyes_

 _Today's breakfast was mostly edible_

 _Therapy is no longer unbearable_

 _John and Harry have made up (for now)_

 _Mycroft hasn't called with news of Mummy (yet)_

 _John likes my (plum-colored, not purple!) shirt_

"Done," Sherlock announced, placing his pen down on the bench.

John finished jotting something down and then placed his pen aside too. He kept his hand covering his page. "Tell you what, you can read mine later tonight, alright?"

"Why?"

"Just read it later, okay?"

Excitement and curiosity bubbled in his veins—he loved and hated being held in suspense. "Okay."

…

"Would you like my phone number?" Sherlock asked later that afternoon. John looked at Sherlock in surprise.

"Oh. Er, would you like to give it to me?"

Sherlock's hands felt unaccountably clammy, all of a sudden. Was it a mistake bringing this up? "I wouldn't be opposed to it. Would…would you mind receiving it?"

"I wouldn't. Mind, I mean," John corrected quickly. "I, er, in fact think I might like it."

"I think I might like it too. Very much."

There was a beat of awkward silence.

John cleared his throat. "So, your number then?"

"Ah. Right. Yes, here, I've written it down already," Sherlock said, handing over the scrap of notebook paper he'd spent all morning working on. It was quite difficult to seem perfectly casual while simultaneously appearing interested, but he was quite confident that he'd managed to do so; he'd smudged his handwriting in order to seem nonchalant and tore the paper's edge so that it looked hastily removed instead of carefully perforated. He hadn't stopped to realize that perhaps the fact that he'd written it beforehand gave away his enthusiasm.

"They only let us use the phones from three to six, but anytime in between is perfect," he told John.

John looked at the piece of paper as if it were gold. "I'll call you tomorrow night, okay? I get off my shift at five so I'll ring you as soon as I get home."

"Good," Sherlock exhaled, trying to ignore the excited patter of his heart in his chest.

"Good," John replied in turn, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

…

Later that night, Sherlock curled up in bed and finally opened his journal to John's entry. John's handwriting had a lot of looping curves and sweeping lines to it; it reminded Sherlock of a mix between a doctor's stereotypically messy scrawl and the bold, artistic lines of a a professor's cursive. He couldn't stop staring at it.

 _Things I am pleased with today_

 _Harry decided that she was being unreasonable and apologized_

 _Nice weather_

 _Sherlock is wearing that lovely purple shirt again_

 _Only three hypochondriacs at the clinic this morning_

 _New Beginnings's cafeteria is slowly learning how to prepare drinkable coffee—no more tar-like sludge!_

The bit about his shirt was quite flattering, but it was nothing in comparison to the final bullet point. As Sherlock read (and reread) the lines at the bottom of the page, his face went pink and his heart suddenly felt too big for his chest.

 _Sherlock's eyes are an incredible grayish-bluish color. There isn't a lot to say on the subject, I just want him to know that I think they are very pretty and I like looking at them. I suppose I could say that about all of him, really._ _Despite the fact that he clearly does not know this about himself, I think he's gorgeous._

* * *

 **A/N: *sigh* I love writing about these two dorks. Thanks so much for reading, everyone, and don't forget to let me know what you think in the comments!**

 **Until next time! :)**

 **(Also, guys, _the special airs tomorrow!_ *heavy breathing* *flailing* IT'S NEARLY HERE, I'M SO EXCITED.)**


	5. Sweet Flag

**A/N: Hello! So, this week a close friend explained that therapy sessions don't actually go the way I've been portraying them. I am told that in real therapy sessions, the therapist never writes anything down, the patient does not lie supine (though in this case, my excuse is that Sherlock is lazy and cat-like and would most likely sprawl across any flat surface as a form of petty rebellion), and the therapist allows the patient to arrive at their own conclusions, rather than moving from one topic to the next as Dr. Ford has been doing. Very sorry for the inaccuracies, guys! For the sake of this story, however, I think I'll continue with the therapy format that I've been using, as it can be attributed to a particular style Dr. Ford has decided to use with Sherlock or the specific technique New Beginnings utilizes as an institution.**

 **Anyway, just thought I would acknowledge that. Thank you and enjoy!**

* * *

 _The_ ** _Sweet Flag Flower_** _is primarily known for its emblematic association with male same-sex love. This symbol is most famous for its appearance in Walt Whitman's homoerotic poem, "Leaves of Grass"._

…

The first thing Sherlock did after reading the note was neatly fold it in half and set it down on his nightstand. He even bothered to crease the edge. After that, he sat there in his bed and stared unseeingly at the far wall for what could have been minutes or hours, his mind completely and utterly blank.

This note was important for several very obvious reasons. For one, it meant that John found him attractive. And if John found him attractive, that meant that John was not entirely straight and therefore Sherlock wasn't completely off the table. And two, it meant that his feelings were actually requited in some small way.

For a rather long time, Sherlock paced his room and debated what course of action to take next. Calling John seemed to be a viable option as it was not yet six o'clock and the phones were readily available, but that seemed a bit too bold. What would he say? What if John preferred to pretend he hadn't written it? Perhaps that was why he refused to allow Sherlock to read it in front of him—he wished for it to remain an unspoken thing between them. With a frustrated sigh, Sherlock walked back and forth across the thin brown carpet of his room, mentally mapping out every possible route the conversation could take.

A simple, straightforward line from Sherlock— _Hello, John, I was just wondering, are you attracted to me?—_ could result in several very different replies.

For one, John might be offended and disgusted by the insinuation.

 _"_ _Me? Attracted to you? Ha! What part of straight do you not understand, Sherlock? I meant 'gorgeous' in a friendly way! Bloody hell, I don't think we can meet up anymore if you're going to spend every second fantasizing about me."_

Or he might try to deny it altogether.

 _"_ _Huh? What note? I didn't leave you a note."_

Or, worst case scenario, he might say that he meant it as a joke.

 _"_ _Oh…wow, this is awkward. Um, Sherlock, I was just having a laugh, mate. Did you really think that I liked you? Because that's bloody hilarious."_

None of these possibilities seemed completely in line with John's character, but Sherlock couldn't help fretting over them nonetheless. However, in the end, curiosity won out as it always did, and ten minutes later, Sherlock found himself standing in the hallway in his blue dressing gown, nervously tapping John's number into the community phone.

"Hello?"

"Hello, John," Sherlock greeted, worrying his lip. He felt like he was in some terrible limbo between excitement and anxiety.

"Sherlock!" John said happily. "How are you?"

"Fine," he managed. A beat went by and he took a breath. "I, er, I read your list."

There was a brief pause. "Did you?"

As silly as it probably looked, Sherlock couldn't help but idly wind the phone's wire around his finger like a teenager. "Yes. I just wanted to know if you, if you actually," he stopped and cleared his throat, his stomach quite suddenly filled with butterflies. "If you meant it. I wanted to know if you meant what you wrote."

"I did, wholeheartedly," John answered without hesitation. When Sherlock did not immediately reply, John paused and seemed to second-guess himself. "Er, do you mind?"

"No, of course I don't mind," Sherlock said with a surprised laugh. Why on earth would a compliment from John Watson be something he _minded?_ If anything, he felt honored.

"Oh. Okay, good," John said and Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice.

"Thank you, John. For the compliment, I mean. I'm extremely flattered." Sherlock wished he didn't sound so stiff, but he supposed it was better than being a nervous mess and simply blurting out whatever popped into his head. He wanted desperately to keep talking to John, but he had no idea what to say. Why was talking over the phone so different than speaking in person? It wasn't that the silence between them felt awkward in any way—strangely, all interactions with John were utterly devoid of discomfort—but Sherlock was worried that if he didn't say something soon, John might get bored and end the call.

So, grasping at straws, he said, "How was your day?"

It was a plebian, pedestrian, utterly boring question, but it quickly turned out to be the best possible thing he could have said. John immediately launched into a humorous story about a man at the clinic, all remaining tension ebbed away, and the two of them spent the next hour chatting happily back and forth like old friends.

* * *

"John," Sherlock greeted warmly, stepping into the garden the next day. After the monumentally pleasing conversation they'd had the night before, he felt there was a cause for celebration, so he was wearing one of the new scarves that Mycroft sent him several weeks ago. It was a beautiful rich blue color that reminded Sherlock of John's eyes.

"Hi," John said with a small smile. His eyes were bright, but his stiff shoulders and rigid stance indicated that there was something heavy weighing on his mind.

Sure enough, the moment Sherlock sat down, John turned to him and said, "Sherlock, I need to tell you something."

Sherlock furrowed his brow and assessed John's expression. Judging by the concerned crease in his brow, the absentminded worrying of his bottom lip, and the slight jumpiness in his eyes, he was quite nervous about something. And if his inability to maintain eye contact was anything to go by, it had to do with Sherlock.

"Yes, John?" he asked in the most neutral tone he could manage.

"Okay, so, it's about last night," John said slowly, drumming his fingers absently on his knee. His whole body seemed to be a jittery, nervous mess. "The phone call."

"Yes?" Sherlock prompted.

"Well, I know it probably didn't seem this way when I was speaking, but…well," he stopped for a moment to rub a hand down his face and take a breath. "After we hung up, I started thinking about what we said and, as stupid as this is going to sound, it dawned on me that I've never really been…interested in blokes before." John tried to laugh breezily, but the sound came out too forced, so he shook his head and continued, "And, yes, I know, you'd think that this sort of thing would have occurred to me sooner, but I genuinely thought I was straight until about a month ago."

Sherlock stared at him, caught between surprise and intrigue. "What changed?"

John gave him an odd look, as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world, but then he seemed to remember something and the look disappeared. "Right, yeah, I forget you're oblivious sometimes. It was _you,_ Sherlock. You're what changed things. I met you and I realized that maybe, well…maybe I wasn't _only_ interested in women after all."

"Oh," Sherlock said with his brows raised, at loss for what to say. What kind of reaction was appropriate here? Happiness at John's admission? Sadness at the clear discomfort it was causing him? Hesitantly, Sherlock asked, "Does this development upset you?"

"No!" John replied a bit too passionately. "Er, I mean, _no,_ " he amended in a much calmer tone. "I'm just feeling a bit strange right now, because part of me feels like I've known this about myself all along, but the other part is just confused as bloody hell, and I'm not quite sure which side to listen to at the moment."

"Is this a sexuality crisis?" Sherlock asked, hoping his voice wasn't relaying the borderline panic currently welling up inside him. As much as he wanted John to embark on this 'journey of self-discovery' he was terrified of where it might lead. What if John realized that he didn't actually like Sherlock? What if he decided that he was disgusted by the idea? Sherlock internally shuddered at the thought.

"No. Yes. Alright, maybe a bit," John admitted. "Um. Okay, listen, the reason I'm kind of uneasy—is that the right word? I don't know—is not because I think there is anything wrong with being queer. My sister is, in her own words, 'as gay as they come', and I've never had an issue with other people's orientations. But now that it's me, it's different. Because now I feel really confused and I...I don't know."

Sherlock took a breath as it suddenly occurred to him where this was headed. "John, if you didn't mean what you wrote or if you wish to take it back, it's fine, I promise I won't hold it against you—"

"Hey, no," John interrupted, taking Sherlock's hand. His brow was furrowed and the tense look on his face disappeared briefly, overshadowed by his desire to reassure Sherlock. "I did mean what I said, Sherlock, and I don't want to take it back. I just wrote it a bit impulsively, is all. I didn't really examine the feelings, I just blurted them out. They're still true, of course, but now that I'm analyzing this a bit deeper, I'm starting to wonder who I am. Or _what_ I am. Does that sound silly? Probably, yes." He rubbed the back of his neck. "As I'm sure you can see, I'm not very good at articulating myself."

"No, John, I understand completely. I'm just relieved you don't regret what you said," Sherlock replied, staring down at their joined hands. "Would you like to talk about my experience with this? I doubt there is any insight I could share, but I'd be happy to try."

"Okay, um, yeah," John said with a half smile. "That might actually help. I guess I want to know, what do you identify as?"

Sherlock lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "Labels bore me. Men are far more attractive to me than women, but intelligence is usually the ultimate determinant"

"I see," John said with the focus of a student listening to his professor's lecture. "Did you ever find yourself wishing you were straight? Just because of how much easier it would be?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Women are not my area, John. I've never had an issue with my attraction to men, but my family certainly had their fair share of aversion to it. Aside from Mycroft, of course. He never cared."

"Your brother was okay with it?"

"Yes, he and I both understood how inconsequential it was in the grand scheme of things, so neither of us made a big deal about it."

"So then I'm guessing you didn't come out to him?"

Sherlock snorted. "That would have been pointless. My sexuality was a mutually understood fact that neither of us addressed in any significant way. He knew I wasn't interested in women in the same way he knew I wasn't interested in astrology. It was all rather unspectacular."

John sighed. "I envy that outlook; I wish I could be as blasé about all this."

"It isn't bad that you aren't, John. If anything, having this mindset puts me in the minority."

"So, your family didn't take it well?" John asked.

The moment he said this, Sherlock could see a dozen micro-expressions dash across John's face, revealing a multitude of emotions—anger, fear, sorrow, anxiety—that clearly indicated that he'd pondered this question several times throughout his life. Most likely, for Harriet's sake.

"You see, my father was a raging homophobe, so Harry had to keep her sexuality under wraps until she was old enough to move out," John explained, proving correct Sherlock's observations. "Was it a similar situation with you?"

Sherlock thought back on the narrow, dark-eyed face of Siger Holmes and a stone of dread settled in his stomach. "No, when my father found out, he merely grew cold and detached. He never physically harmed me, but that was only because he could not muster up enough passion to go through the trouble. He felt nothing for me other than vague disdain and disappointment, I'm afraid. My mother was not as cruel, but she certainly was not pleased with my 'lifestyle choice'. She never actively stopped me from seeing anyone, but she didn't support me either."

John nodded and briefly squeezed Sherlock's hand, a silent gesture of comfort. Sherlock was relieved that John was not the type of person who cringed and cooed and offered a barrage of apologies in the wake of a confession— _Oh, no, that must have been awful, I'm so sorry!_ Sherlock appreciated that John could express a far more genuine sentiment without even speaking.

"When did you know you weren't straight?" John asked, releasing Sherlock's hand and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. It was a position Sherlock imagined John had taken when he'd been on the bench during a rugby match all those years ago, watching the proceedings with a sharp eye and eagerly awaiting his return to the field. It was a pose of focus and gritty determination. The fact that Sherlock's words were provoking such a look meant that in some small way this was helping John regain his confidence, and the thought made Sherlock's heart sing.

"There was no particular moment when the realization dawned on me," Sherlock said. "The impulses and inclinations I felt were an undercurrent throughout my entire childhood. If you'd like to know the first time I acted on those impulses, however, I was fourteen years old and I kissed our maid's son out by the lake. When my father found out, he was so furious that he fired the maid and sent her away immediately. It was all rather unpleasant."

"But that never bothered you?" John asked. "His disapproval, I mean."

"No," Sherlock answered simply. "I'm content with myself and that is all that matters."

…

"Sherlock, you know I like you, right?" John said a bit later, still holding his hand.

"I do, now," Sherlock replied honestly. John smiled.

"Okay, good. Because I don't want you to think that what I'm about to say next has any bearing on my feelings for you." He paused. "I think I might be able to figure this out a little better if I'm by myself. I promise I won't be gone for more than a week, but I need some space. Not because of anything you did," John hastily clarified, "but because when I'm around you, I can't seem to focus on anything but how lovely you are." He smiled and squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Okay?"

 _Yet another week without John._ Sherlock obviously wasn't pleased with this development, but if it meant giving John peace of mind, he was willing to grit his teeth and bear it.

"Okay," Sherlock agreed, returning John's small smile.

* * *

"You seem distracted, Sherlock," Dr. Ford pointed out during their session the next morning. She set her mug down and readied her pen with a sharp _click_. "What are you thinking of?"

"John's sexuality," Sherlock answered absently. He was busy wandering through the mazes of his mind palace, in search of any information that might shed light on the solution to this dilemma. Though John wasn't pushing him away or threatening to stop visiting forever, it still pained Sherlock to know that John was distressed about this.

"Oh?" Dr. Ford said with interest, raising a brow. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"Not really, but I suppose I don't have much of a choice." He distractedly picked at a loose string on the sofa. "John confessed that he was attracted to me and now he isn't sure what he is. Orientation-wise, I mean. According to him, he thought he was straight until quite recently. We spoke for some time yesterday about sexuality and all that rot, and it seemed to help a bit, but he still said he'd like to take the next few days to mull things over in private."

Dr. Ford nodding thoughtfully, her pen uncharacteristically still. "Do you have any thoughts on this?"

Sherlock considered the question for a moment. "Well, I'm quite certain John is bisexual, but I have no intention of flat-out telling him that. I believe it would benefit him most if he were able to arrive at this conclusion on his own."

She nodded. "And how do you _feel_ about this situation?"

Sherlock turned his gaze to the ceiling and heaved a big sigh. "I can't help but feel guilty."

"Guilty," Dr. Ford echoed. "That's very interesting, Sherlock, would you like to tell me why?"

"I feel guilty for being the one who catalyzed this whole identity crisis," Sherlock said, drumming his fingers on the armrest of the sofa. "I just want John to be happy, and even though he made it very clear that he is far happier now that we're friends, I can't help but feel as though I've caused this mess."

Dr. Ford tilted her head and gave him a knowing look "And that's the only reason you feel guilty?"

With an annoyed glance in her direction, Sherlock begrudgingly continued, _"And_ I suppose I feel guilty for taking pleasure in this whole situation. John is clearly lost and confused at the moment, yet I'm utterly delighted by this turn of events. I mean, obviously I'm not pleased that John is upset, but even taking joy in his attraction to me seems a bit wrong, doesn't it? "

"Is that what you're concerned about, Sherlock? Because going by what you've told me in the past, right and wrong aren't usually your priorities."

"Well, in this case, they are," Sherlock replied succinctly. "I want to treat John right."

"Why?"

"Because he matters to me," Sherlock said, stating what he felt was quite obvious.

"And why does he matter to you?"

"Because he's clever and patient and he cares about what I have to say," Sherlock stated. He moodily swatted a stray curl out of his eyes and threw an annoyed glance her way. "However, I've told you all of these things before. Why on earth are you asking so many redundant questions today?"

"I just wanted to clarify the depth of your relationship with John," Dr. Ford explained, placing her pen down on the table. "From an outsider's perspective, I think his entrance into your life has had a monumental impact on your recovery. How do you feel about that, Sherlock?"

Ah, yes, the recovery. AKA, the only reason he was here in the first place. It had been ages since she'd mentioned his drug abuse so directly; his near-overdose almost seemed like a strange dream, now.

"Dr. Ford, I haven't thought of cocaine once since the moment John and I met," Sherlock answered. He waited for that telltale pang of emptiness that always accompanied a lie, but it never came; he was telling the truth. Something in his chest felt feather-light and warm. "Why bother with something like drugs when I can have the real thing instead?"

"The real thing?" Dr. Ford questioned.

The word jumped from Sherlock's lips without a second thought. "Happiness."

"Happiness," Dr. Ford said under her breath, scribbling the word onto her notepad with a quick flick of her wrist.

He looked out the window, watching as dust motes floated along the watery rays of sunlight spilling into the room.

"All I know is that he makes me happy, Dr. Ford. Any other vice is pointless in comparison to John Watson."

* * *

"So, I talked to Harry," John said over the phone four nights later. He sounded much more relaxed than he had when they'd spoken in person, which was a good sign. "We had a long, _long_ conversation when I visited her yesterday and it was…interesting."

"Did she tell you anything helpful?" Sherlock asked. He was sitting in the dim hallway, clutching the clunky New Beginnings phone to his ear with an iron grip. He hadn't heard John's voice in what felt like ages and it was a relief to finally speak to him again.

"Yes, actually. Um," John hesitated for a moment. "She said I'm probably bisexual."

"Probably?"

"Well, she went on for about twenty minutes about all the different sexualities I could potentially identify as, but eventually we decided on bisexual because it made the most sense."

Sherlock smiled, half because he was pleased that John had found a label he felt satisfied with, and half because his guess had been right. "I'm really glad to hear that, John."

"Christ, Sherlock, do you know how many different sexualities there are? I can't even remember half of them now, but Harry was listing them off the top of her head like it was the sodding alphabet. Hold on, let me find that slip of paper, I scribbled a few down."

Sherlock leaned back and made himself comfortable in his chair. "By all means, go on."

"Ah, here it is. Okay, so she said I could potentially identify as biromantic heterosexual, homosexual, pansexual homoromantic, etcetera. She went through about a dozen more and explained each one, before I finally settled on bisexual. Makes sense, right? I didn't think I was gay, but I definitely didn't think I was straight either."

"Well, I am very pleased that Harry was able to help clarify things, John," Sherlock said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Do you feel a bit better now?"

"I do," John said, huffing out a relieved laugh. "God, aren't people supposed to have these realizations when they're bloody teenagers? Why did it take _this long_ for me to figure this out? How the hell did I not realize this about myself?"

"I'm sure you were busy with other things," Sherlock replied wryly. "You know, playing rugby, getting your PHD, making women swoon on three different continents."

John groaned and Sherlock imagined he was pressing a hand to his forehead in mock-agony. "God, I really do regret telling you about that nickname."

"Three Continents Watson has an interesting ring to it, but I would definitely prefer that you remain in _this_ continent."

John chuckled. "You don't have to worry about that, I have no intention of leaving any time soon."

"Good."

So, John was bisexual and he was attracted to men. Specifically, Sherlock. This admission raised some very pertinent questions. Did this mean John wanted to pursue something with Sherlock? Was this John's way of testing the waters and determining Sherlock's level of interest?

Sherlock was fairly certain that his fumbling compliments over the past month had been more than enough confirmation of his feelings for John, but he couldn't be certain. The last thing he wanted was for John to think that he wasn't interested in a relationship of some sort, because he was. Quite desperately, actually. He'd been so caught up in this whirlwind of John's sexuality crisis, that he hadn't bothered to stop and properly wonder to what extent John returned his feelings.

At the same time that Sherlock said, "John, If you don't my asking—" John said "Sherlock, there's something I need to say."

"Oh." Sherlock leaned back against the wall and physically (and mentally) braced himself for whatever John was about to tell him "You first."

"Okay. Well, first of all, Sherlock, I just want to apologize for keeping you in suspense for the past four days," John said with an exhale. The weight behind his words indicated that he'd rehearsed this speech several times in his mind already. Sherlock pressed the receiver tighter to his ear and waited for John to continue with bated breath. "I was confused and lost and I didn't want to lead you on in case these feelings turned out to be purely platonic." John snorted at himself and Sherlock's tense shoulders immediately relaxed. "Honestly, I don't know who the hell I was kidding when I thought there was even a _single chance_ that I wasn't attracted to you. I mean, look at you, Sherlock. Brilliant, beautiful, exciting to be around…" John trailed off for a moment and then remembered himself and cleared his throat. "Er, but yeah, anyway, the point of all this is, I like you. A lot. More than anyone else, really. And…and I don't really know what I'd like you to do with that confession, but there it is."

Sherlock hadn't realized he was biting his thumbnail until he had to wedge it from his mouth to reply. "John, I like you too. I like you more than virtually any other human being on the planet." He mentally reviewed his words and winced. "Too strong?"

"No, it's fine. It's all fine," John replied with a warm intimacy that Sherlock had never heard before. Sherlock sat up a bit straighter, his heart thrumming inside his chest like a hummingbird.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Is it strange that I wish we were speaking in person right now? Because I would really like to see your face. It sounds like you're smiling."

John gave a delighted hum. "Your skills of deduction never fail to amaze me, Detective."

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone! Please let me know what you think in the comments, your feedback is food for my writer soul!**

 **Chapter 6 will be up next weekend! I am going to ambitiously promise that there will be a new update every Sunday, so make sure to subscribe!**

 **Much love! JLW**


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